


корабли имеют сердце

by goeasyvicar



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon, lesbian mrs borgova because i'm tired of seeing her cheated on, the rating is only for some swearing, victorian handholding is about as dirty as it gets in this one lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:02:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28503441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goeasyvicar/pseuds/goeasyvicar
Summary: The burning stopped as soon as Elizabeth's agent ushered her outside but Borgov remained in his place for a few seconds more, not allowing the feeling of the crowd dissecting him on the spot for a moment's weakness to get to him. Now he was certain the woman will destroy him, his image in the eyes of the union, perhaps his entire career, in the upcoming match. And the mere possibility of letting her do it - fighting her fairly and respectfully, yes, but eventually bowing down for her to knock the crown off of his head - ignited a strange, alien flame under his ribs.
Relationships: Vasily Borgov/Beth Harmon
Comments: 18
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> listen, i've had some time to reflect on this here story and i honestly hate it more and more with each passing day, which is the case for pretty much everything i've ever written. is this objectively garbage? yes, absolutely, 100%. did i enjoy writing it anyway? unfortunately also yes and there are still some tiny insignificant details in there that i like (obviously because i have no taste), so i'm leaving it up for now. but don't like. actually read it. seriously, don't.

When Elizabeth Harmon left her table to presumably meet her moscovian fans, her opponent bitten but still alive and breathing, willing to even shake her hand afterwards, and Vasily Borgov left his, unable to contain his curiosity, he thought he was going to collapse. The sound of his chair moving was louder than he intended, his opponent's reaction - more dramatic than he expected, but Harmon actually stopping in her tracks and turning around to look was far more dreadful than anything else. He didn't look at her, didn't dare to, even for a moment, but he felt her eyes on him the same way he had always felt them before. A familiar prickling sensation burned the side of his face and he automatically covered it with his hand as if he was deep in contemplation of her moves. He admired her technique, noticed a touch of recklessness, of course, but still couldn't help his diaphragm slightly shaking with a heady mixture of embarrassment, fear and excitement.  
The burning stopped as soon as Elizabeth's agent ushered her outside but Borgov remained in his place for a few seconds more, not allowing the feeling of the crowd dissecting him on the spot for a moment's weakness to get to him. Now he was certain the woman will destroy him, his image in the eyes of the union, perhaps his entire career, in the upcoming match. And the mere possibility of letting her do it - fighting her fairly and respectfully, yes, but eventually bowing down for her to knock the crown off of his head - ignited a strange, alien flame under his ribs.

Beth stayed in Moscow for longer than she thought was possible. The public charmed her completely, be it in prestigious restaurants or on the streets, in that little park where she played those unacquainted old men with their eyes so kind and rapturous and endlessly bright regardless of their age. She felt welcome there, maybe for the first time in her life a place on the map felt like home to her. She even, fleetingly, considered staying here for good. However, as anything pleasant in her memory (not chess though, never chess), the feeling faded away, spread in blurred lines around her like circles on water. The government - _her government_ , she was supposed to say but never even tried to force herself to do so as she did not once agree with any politician she'd ever heard speak - wanted her back, wanted their treasured winner back. How could they not? She defeated the Russians! She was a power not to be trifled with but still controlled, always controlled, put on a certain path. The thought of the president doing a silly little dance around the oval office in celebration of the occasion made her snort but, all in all, that was the only funny thing she could entertain herself with on the way home. Then there were interviews, grabby reporters, another bodyguard and flashes, flashes, flashes. She could hear the cameras clicking for a full day when she was finally allowed to have that day for herself. Luckily, it wasn't her first time and she was stronger now. Or at least doing her absolute best to appear that way.  
The moment she felt utterly happy was when she got to see Jolene. They were never terribly affectionate with each other in the physical sense of the word but this time Beth didn't even try to bottle up the urge to hug her as tight as she could. She returned the money as soon as the cheque was in her hands, she just couldn't bear the thought of doing the same thing she did to Mr Shaibel all those years ago. Besides, Jolene needed the money more than her, to chase her dream and become her own majestic mountain. Not to mention the lack of immediate, convenient money making it easier for Beth to hold onto her sobriety...  
Benny, Harry, Townes, even the twins - _her boys_ \- followed shortly after Jolene's departure to law school. She briefly regretted the fact that they all couldn't meet in one place but was also kind of relieved she wouldn't have to explain their entangled connections to Jolene. She probably wouldn't have judged her too harshly but Beth didn't want to check anyway. Not now. She needed rest more than anything, needed to get her bearings since the high of her triumph in Moscow was starting to wear off. And after that? Into battle again.

Beth hadn't heard any news about Girev, somehow, for a whole year after Moscow. The promising genius boy didn't exactly get to recuperate after Mexico City, tirelessly training, playing, training again and playing again, but with Borgov defeated the USSR needed another, stronger and fresher champion, so they made sure that when he rises to the tops of the leader boards, he will be completely ready to take on Harmon again and, this time, win the title back. Beth was fond of the boy, in the only way she could be of anyone who wasn't in her closest circle, but she had not the slightest intention to lose so quickly after getting on the pedestal. That was the first time she properly thought of Borgov after their match.  
For the longest time Vasily Borgov, cold, collected, buttoned-up, no doubt hiding some winning technique up his sleeve, was, perhaps, the most perplexing piece on Beth's imaginary board but that was until she'd played him for the first time. From an unbeatable giant he turned into an insignificant predictable man, enveloped by her fiery contempt for his unexciting moves. But she remembered that day very differently for obvious reasons, so her mental image of him started to wither with time. She finally saw his eyes in Paris, anticipation, then disappointment, and for that alone he became _one of them_ , yet another man who didn't see her as an equal. In Moscow, the picture shifted again, this time to his unspoken advantage in her eyes, but with that unexpected, unreserved hug he stepped away from the spotlight in real life and to the side of the board in her mind. She didn't know a lot about the KGB and yet something told her he won't be a problem anymore, so she tucked him somewhere far away in her mind. Yet, she always kept his king on her bedside table as a constant reminder - of her victory or of him specifically, she didn't care to admit.   
Townes was the first to tell Beth that Borgov made his exit from the chess scene and from the country only some days after the match. There was a particular little twinkle of courteous sadness in her friend's eyes that made her press on and eventually force him to lay out the details. The fact that, apparently, Borgov didn't really leave on his own terms but rather was made leave by the KGB wasn't as surprising and flattering to Beth as Townes was maybe hoping it would be, and yet she didn't feel unbothered. She expected a small part of her to pity the man as a fallen legend but it was like Townes had turned off all the lights around her. The change in her expression was so sudden and severe that he even apologised for delivering the news she herself squeezed out of him. She didn't speak to anyone for two whole days after that, reeling from what could only be described as shame. Borgov was never like Shaibel, never taught her anything personally, never opened a door into a completely new and undiscovered world, never told her she was astounding, but for some unknown reason her troubled brain connected the two and she felt like she'd let him down as well. There was something else, some wild sting pulsating in her temples like an alarm, but the definition was blurred, hidden behind a canopy she couldn't quite rip. She'll know in time, if she would only let herself stop resisting the urge to squint for the image to come into focus, but she didn't want to, not yet.

Coming out of her self-inflicted gloom, Beth had already been planning to reach out, find Borgov, talk to him, but with the tournament in Rome approaching and Girev finally and fully coming into play, she now had a solid reason to do so. She didn't want to ask Townes for any more information and Benny would probably ask too many questions, so the next thing she knew, she was writing to Luchenko. The charming elderly gentleman gave her his address when they were having dinner after the Invitational and she smiled politely but didn't think much of it until now, which was honestly one of her wiser decisions. Luchenko, even the master of the game that he was, appeared a little out of the ordinary, a little oblivious about the danger that was his country, so corresponding with an American right after the match could've been damaging for him more than it would've been for her, even if her judgment of his demeanour was incorrect. In any case, more than enough time had passed since then and she hadn't heard anything of Luchenko's exile from the USSR, so she assumed it was safe. And it was. In his first letter back he even chided her a little for not writing sooner, which, she assumed, was a custom for all Russians rather than his own, but was generally excited to talk to her again. Beth, in her turn, was polite and discreet enough not to start with requests and exchanged a couple more letters with him before finally daring to ask about his old friend. Luchenko's reply was more sombre this time, almost hesitant, as if he'd given Borgov a promise not to disclose his location to anyone, so he dragged on with his own musings on the matter for a while but eventually complied. Vasily with his wife and son (she felt stupid for forgetting) ended up in Montpellier, and Luchenko, perhaps foolishly but more likely unbelievably wisely, gave Elizabeth Harmon their address. For the same kind of correspondence, he presumed. She didn't have any reason to actually visit. But while her now good Russian friend wondered about the kind of connection these two might have outside of chess, Beth was already on the plane to France. 


	2. Chapter 2

The weather in this new place has been positively unbearable but Borgov would never admit he was uncomfortable out loud. Besides, summers in Russia would sometimes get even hotter than here, especially in the dog days, so it wasn't exactly unusual. Still, he hoped for autumn to come quicker and at least make it easier to breathe. Winter was his favourite, as comical as it could've been for a Russian, but he wasn't even dreaming of having a proper winter here.  
Montpellier had its benefits, however, the main one being left alone, not watched, not followed, not told what to do by the party. He didn't wallow in self-pity for a long time, hated feeling useless, so he made every effort, pulled every string he had left to make sure he and his family had a comfortable living here. He was even a French citizen now and spent this entire time, apart from, obviously, playing chess and honing his skills, learning the language with the help of his wife. He wasn't particularly good at it but their collective knowledge was enough to communicate with the locals. Luchenko's letters brought a little joy and reminded him of his previous life. Who could've thought that old devil was hiding his exchanges with none other than Elizabeth Harmon this whole time?

Beth, on the contrary, loved the Mediterranean climate and immediately wished she could stay here. Despite the warmest season coming to an end, the trees were green, flowers were blooming, clothes were colourful and flowy, and absolutely everyone seemed to be wearing shades up to the knocker. She caught herself smiling from just looking at them and the thought of living here, spending her free time playing by the sea, made her step lighter. But when she finally reached the right address, she stopped frozen in place mere steps away from the picket fence. The man she played a little over a year ago, the quiet genius under the guise of a travelling salesman, simply wasn't there. Instead, there was someone she didn't know - a stranger in a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up seemingly trying to climb up an apple tree and covering himself in half-yellowed leaves in the process. His face looked familiar but the expression on it was so much more emotional, lively than she thought he was ever capable of. It took her a couple of seconds to notice a tortoiseshell cat in the tree, silently meowing, trying to get down but hesitating and once again meowing in frustration. A couple more to hear the man calling the cat in hopes of persuading it to jump with some quiet Russian swearing mixed in. He had to be Borgov, there was no doubt about it, but still Beth just stood there, watching him like a wild animal in its natural habitat, which she did many times before. Was this a normal display? Did he usually behave like that at home, with his family, his friends? Was he only ever cold with Elizabeth Harmon because she was American and a threat to his name? Now that she's seen him like that, relaxed, at ease, with no agents to be seen anywhere around him, will she be able to come back to the stoic image she memorized from watching his interviews and reading his book?..

However, before she could even try to answer any of the questions, her train of thought was interrupted by the man turning around to look at her. He appeared puzzled for a moment, unable to believe his own eyes - but only for a moment. Beth knew he recognized her immediately and the corners of her mouth instinctively twitched.

"Miss Harmon?" The harsh consonants of his accent, the low rumble of his voice were unmistakable and she felt foolish for ever doubting it.

"Mr Borgov," she replied with a slight nod and a genuine smile this time, finally allowing herself to move forward, closer to the fence. "I hope I'm not distracting you from your rescue mission?"

Borgov smiled back and lowered his gaze for a second, almost embarrassed of his uncharacteristic appearance.

"I must say, you are the last person I expected to see here." He quickly switched to Russian, seemingly unsure of his English or at least its remainder, and stretched out his hand to greet his unanticipated guest. "What on earth are you doing here?"

The question took her by surprise, even though it had to be the first thing any sensible person would ask under the circumstances, and Beth realised with a wave of goosebumps on the back of her neck that she'd forgotten the entire speech she had prepared for this very situation. But before she could gather her thoughts and mould them into something even just barely convincing, Borgov gently took her small hand in his and held it for a while before letting go. It was like they have never shaken hands before, the sensation was completely new and staggering, like an electric shock, though she tried to keep her expression as neutrally polite as possible and decided to ignore the feeling of white noise in the tips of her fingers. Vasily's face remained unwavering but his hand burned from the inside. All this time he kept returning to Elizabeth Harmon in his memories, to her playing, raging, falling, conquering, to her delicate hands, to her doe eyes, to her soft victorious smile, but could never even imagine her standing in front of him, just like that, ever again.

The salvation came in the form of Mrs Borgova who heard her husband speaking Russian to someone and popped out to see who it was, although Beth wasn't sure if she liked it. Why, she didn't know, but the feeling of Borgov's fingers leaving hers stung and made her hand tremble just a little.

"Oh- Miss Harmon!" Of course she remembered her, why wouldn't she? This Miss Harmon ruined her husband's career, albeit involuntarily, one would always remember a person like that. "Please, come in! Vasya, don't just stand there like a mast! When do you think we'll have a guest like that again?"

The woman hurried out of the house and to Beth, taking her hand - the same hand Borgov was just holding, didn't even give her any time to cope with the aftershock - and leading her inside before she could protest. Mrs Borgova looked by all means like a Parisienne even though they lived pretty far from Paris, with only her hair done the same way as before and, of course, her accent giving her away. Beth couldn't argue: they looked good together, natural, despite the mismatching styles. One could tell by barely even looking at them that they lived a long life together. She remembered her own bitter envy, remembered wanting the same support, but this time there wasn't as much spleen in the feeling. She had her own people now, had her support, although scattered all around the States. She had no reason to envy them anymore.

The house was simultaneously exactly what she expected to see and not at all that. It somehow seemed smaller on the inside than on the outside despite having two floors but Beth was instantly blanketed by the homely atmosphere. Every corner of the living room and the adjacent kitchen was busy with furniture, books and various trinkets but somehow didn't feel overcrowded. Luchenko's apartment in a "stalinka" in Moscow where she'd been only once during her stay after the Invitational had a similar feel to it, so it had to have been a Russian thing, though here the ceilings were a touch lower and the whole house felt French in a way she couldn't quite describe. Being in that apartment or rather in the stairwell before it, all dull white flickering light and dirty greens and greys, filled her with quiet solemn dread, like she knew she was going to be murdered and left to lay there, on the stairs, in her pretty white coat now stained with blood, and for some reason was okay with it as long as there was a higher reason for it. Being here felt like curling up in a worn but comfortable chair near a fireplace after being in the cold for too long and for that she was thankful to the owners of the place, even if their intentions were different.  
Contradictory to her desire to welcome Elizabeth Harmon in their home as soon as possible, Mrs Borgova (whose name Beth still didn't know) dragged her husband to the kitchen where they quietly talked about something she clearly wasn't a part of, which gave her a little time to get familiar with her surroundings. The couch looked cosy enough but she didn't dare to sit without being offered to and chose to walk around the living room instead. The main attraction of the room was probably the massive shelving unit put with its back to the wall opposite the kitchen and covering it entirely. It was filled to the brim with the most different books imaginable but also housed a considerable collection of records. Many of them featured the face of a woman by the name of Anna German whose voice she's never heard before but could imagine it being soft and soothing. Leafing through them, Beth discovered, much to her surprise, the exact same record of Peggy Lee's _"Fever"_ she had at home. The sight of the cover made her cheeks pink with embarrassment. Did she really try to seduce Harry Beltik to it? _That_ Harry Beltik? Oh, he was fine but she really should've reserved that song for someone else.

From the corner of her eye Beth saw the Borgovs hug and pressed her lips together as she felt that sting in her temples again. Her mind sent her fragments of that time Borgov hugged her like that in Moscow. He was warm and surprisingly tender, and Beth now pitied the fact that she didn't exactly reciprocate when she had the chance. What was it that was bothering her so much about the picture? Not envy, surely. Something close to envy, something she couldn't name or describe in one word but, perhaps, has been feeling throughout her whole life. But now was not the time to look for the right definition as Mrs Borgova decided to come back to her guest.

"I'm very sorry, Miss Harmon, but, as it turns out, I have some business to attend to. I really wish I could be a good hostess and finally get to know you but for today my husband will have to do it for me." The woman half-turned to Borgov and glanced at him as if to convey a secret message only the two of them could understand. "How long will you be staying here?"

"Only a day, I'm afraid," she replied with yet another short polite smile. "I wanted to discuss the upcoming tournament in Rome with Mr Borgov."

Both of them seemed confused by the answer.

"I- I was, uh- visiting someone in Paris but since I knew you lived here, I thought talking in person would be easier than writing." She wasn't visiting anyone, just didn't want to say she came all the way from Kentucky to see him, and they probably saw right through her fibbing but were all too polite to point it out.

"Oh?.. Well, even better then." Mrs Borgova's expression looked a lot like a smile but there was something else behind her eyes - something Beth couldn't quite place, presumably due to her age. "The bane of my existence is that I know virtually nothing about chess-"

"That's not really true," Borgov quickly added in English.

"-so I would hate to interrupt," she continued without skipping a beat. "I do hope to see you again, Miss Harmon."

With a proper warm and welcoming smile this time Mrs Borgova moved closer and gave Beth a light hug. The sudden motion made her stiffen - what was it with the Russians and hugging? - but thankfully she was tactful enough to return it before the lady of the house thought her unmannerly. "Me too."

With that Mrs Borgova was gone, almost as fast as she appeared, and Elizabeth Harmon and Vasily Borgov were alone again. As soon as the door closed with a creak and the awkward silence between them layed its weighty paws on Beth's shoulders, she suddenly realised that this entire affair was incredibly stupid and she shouldn't have gone through with it so quickly or at least should have prepared a sensible speech. She sort of did, on the plane, but didn't bother to memorize it or rehearse it, so sure she was in her social skills. 

"So- what about that rescue mission?" She finally looked up at Borgov, clinging to the possible starter for the conversation for dear life. The man didn't even reply and instead rushed to the door, presumably to get the cat, but as soon as he grabbed the handle and pulled it, the cat was already on the porch. 

"Little devil," he whispered gently, lifting the cat off the ground and helping it settle in his arms, all while scratching it behind its ear. The pet didn't purr but seemed content and relaxed enough for Beth to notice the level of trust between these two. The idea of Borgov, the Russian robot man, having a cat and being so _goddamn_ sweet with it almost made her head spin with dissonance but she convinced herself there was nothing weird about it. His image, however, kept shifting. 

"What's his name?" Beth inquired carefully, not wanting to mess up the idyllic pastoral. 

"Hers," Borgov corrected quietly, fixing his familiar unblinking gaze on his guest once again. "Mishka."

The young woman snickered. 

"A cat named Bear?" 

"Little Bear," he corrected again with a nod and a lopsided smile so faint that Beth was only able to register it thanks to all of the time she'd spent studying his face like a guide for spies during their matches. "It was my son's idea. Her coat reminded him of that of a bear when she was a kitten." 

"The resemblance is uncanny." Beth widened her eyes sarcastically and reached to touch Mishka's nose but the cat only moved closer to her owner and turned her little head away. "Well, she doesn't like me, that's for sure."

"Don't take it personally. She doesn't like anyone new." Borgov just kept looking and looking, trying to remember every detail of their short interaction. "Can I offer you some tea, Miss Harmon?" 

"I'd love some, yeah." Suddenly aware of how close she's gotten in the process of trying to charm the cat, Beth moved a half-step back. "And please, it's Beth."

Putting Mishka down on the floor again, Borgov returned to the kitchen to pop the kettle on, while Beth continued carefully watching him. Each and every one of his mannerisms she could remember she was still seeing in him now, yet his every move felt more casual. Of course, why wouldn't he be casual in his own kitchen, at his house? She was the stranger here, not him. She sensed the guilt from watching him in secret, as if through a surveillance camera, creeping in but couldn't bring herself to look away. Even this simple domesticity performed by him hypnotised her.

"You're going to burn a hole through me, Beth."

The sound of her name, her real name and not some courteous title, spoken by him for the first time in their whole acquaintance almost startled her, so she immediately averted her eyes. His accent was still harsh, novel, but his voice was so tender. Trading the "th" on the end for a sharp "t" transformed her name from a shortening she most identified with her whole life into something she's never heard before. It sounded, for all intents and purposes, rather endearing. It also meant that this whole time Borgov could feel her watching him without even turning his head. See her seeing him.

"Please, sit, make yourself at home." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the couch, and Beth finally let herself sit down and relax, almost instantly curling up like a cat with her knees pulled up to her chest and her head resting on her hands crossed on top of them. She was right: the couch really was comfortable.

Borgov joined her a couple of minutes later, carrying a small tray with teacups, a tiny milk jug, a sugar bowl and all the appropriate things, though, ordinarily, sat upright opposite his guest, keeping a more than reasonable distance. He helped Beth with her teacup and carefully handed it over, accidentally brushing her fingertips in the process. A familiar bolt shot through her hand and she almost recoiled but was cautious enough not to drop the cup, ruining her trousers, the couch and burning their hands.

"Thank you." She smiled humbly, hoping her being hot in the face didn't show as much as she felt it. Borgov's face remained impassive as always, and a little part of her was wounded by the fact that this positively victorian exchange didn't cause the same reaction in him. But then again, what was she expecting? This whole time he'd only shown his softer side to anyone but Elizabeth Harmon, all but once breaking his facade when his own crown was broken. That was different. Besides, he had no reason to blush like a schoolgirl for her of all people.

Meanwhile, Borgov could feel his heart beating in his throat and only wished his hands wouldn't start shaking. "So, the tournament in Rome..."

"Yes, it's in three months," Beth nodded slowly after taking a tiny sip from her cup and putting it on her knees instead of the table beside them.

"And you're... worried about it?" Borgov raised his eyebrows slightly at the notion. Surely that wasn't it.

"Not exactly," she confirmed with a smile that could be misconstrued as impudent - she was still used to men underestimating her and reflexively took up arms but there was no indication of condescension in his voice, so she drew back. "I would just like some... guidance, I guess. I'll play the others fine but Girev might be tricky after his training, so I thought-"

"You thought that since I was shunned by the party, I could reveal all of the Soviet secret techniques out of spite?"

Borgov went back to Russian again, now with a touch of sarcasm in his words, so it took Beth a second to realise he wasn't talking seriously. Well, at least not entirely.

"I thought, Mr Borgov, that no one would know my enemy better than his friend."

The look on her face was triumphant, assertive, her Russian was perfect and her deceptive simper threatened to poison him on sight for doubting her even for a moment, but he just smiled and retreated. Her being so confident still got his heart racing.

"Vasily. Please." Hiding his smile under the usual frown, he lowered his gaze and stopped on her hands. "But if I am your enemy's friend, then I must be your enemy also?"

Beth felt a wave of shame wash over her abruptly. She came all the way here, after everything that had happened to him, disrupted their peace, presumably even made Mrs Borgova leave her own house just so they could talk, and that all just to insult him again? If anything, her intention was to console him, though now that she sat so close to him again, almost the same distance as when they played, she doubted he'd want it, especially from her. He even offered her his first name - an intimate move for a man like him, maybe even more intimate than she was willing to admit.

"No... you're not. Not anymore."

Vasily's lips twitched in one of his fainter smiles, those that he tried to keep just for himself, but Beth noticed - of course she noticed - and couldn't help but mirror it in her own, less reserved way.

"Wouldn't it be more in character for me to consult Girev instead? I am still Russian after all."

Beth's smile grew more cunning with an almost childlike mischievous glint in her eyes. How did she manage to keep it through... well, through all of it? 

"No," she said simply and firmly, knowing, of course, that he was just teasing her or at least trying to. "Girev has other helpers, I think Luchenko will be there too. Besides..." And with that her smile faded just a little. "I'm not sure if- they even let you into the building."

"They?" Borgov furrowed his brow, instinctively trying to look more imposing and unbothered in the face of a familiar danger. 

"The KGB."

Vasily didn't like remembering them, as anyone who was trapped, animal and human alike. There were times in his life when he wished he was never a Grandmaster, never revealed his skill to anyone, never followed his ambitious nature when he was still young, but instead kept playing for his own pleasure and education. He didn't have to join any chess clubs as a child, didn't have to win so quickly and so many times to appease his mother, didn't have to partake in any tournaments. The government wouldn't have noticed him if he had just played with his friends, unsupervised. When he was about Beth's age his victories, international or local, drove him, made him obsessed with winning for an embarrassingly long while. And although now that he was much older and, hopefully, wiser, the worst part was that he still felt the same way. He liked the rush of adrenaline after another victory (never shown), liked the control that comes with trapping his opponent's most powerful pieces (never expressed), liked feeling like a conqueror without actually resorting to violence (never admitted). But even so, he could've kept it all to himself if he tried. He didn't, and so came the guard dogs with a pack of old wolves leading them. His life, regardless of the fact that his so-called celebrity status was much less noticeable than that of famous actors, singers or athletes, turned into a Soviet propaganda show against his will. Vasily loved his country deeply but that planted a seed of quiet deprecation somewhere behind his ribs, which, with time, bloomed and spread its wiry roots though his whole body. Maybe that's why he always looked so severe. And maybe that's why he distinguished Beth so quickly: they were too much alike and that, apart from the obvious respect, made him pity her. Perhaps, in the distant future, when he's much older, Elizabeth Harmon, despite all of their differences, will become him if she doesn't reprioritise now, and the mere idea of that happening filled him with anguish.

Borgov let out a heavy sigh and looked up at his guest.

"Can I share a story with you, Beth?"


	3. Chapter 3

They talked for hours. The topics of their conversation were different but sewn through with a thread of black and white ivory. Borgov was surprisingly soft-spoken, gentle and eloquent, though switched from English to Russian and the other way around several times for them to understand each other better. His voice sounded like it belonged to a storyteller from a children's show, so Beth often caught herself forgetting whom she was speaking to. It was like his face slowly became younger, smoother, the harsh traces of the past grief on his skin softening and his eyes lighting up with life and energy every time he spoke about something - _or someone_ \- he loved. Mishka settling in his lap and falling asleep in an instant didn't exactly help to sharpen his blurry silhouette, and once, for a brief moment, she even wished to take the cat's place just to soak in the mellow warmth.

He told Beth, most of all, of his life as a chess player, from a young ambitious boy to a jaded Grandmaster. Of the difficulties that came with wars, not only the one that was open and devastating but also the secret one that was going on right now. He told her of his favourite places in the USSR and Russia specifically with such vivid inviting detail that her own heart yearned for them, yearned to see the beauty and splendour that was their great unrelenting nature. She will absolutely have to visit at least half the map when she finally gets to but for now his tales were more than enough. 

Beth, in her turn, told him about her life before and after Methuen, about Mr Shaibel, about her mothers, about Jolene, her boys, and after that, getting more and more relaxed and accustomed to the feeling of being listened to, about her addiction. She realised while speaking that she never actually genuinely talked about it with anyone. She always assumed Jolene understood her because they went through more or less the same experience (although now she knew that wasn't true for several reasons), the others would probably judge her, even though her way of living wasn't really a secret, and seeking a therapist would make her weak - weaker than she already was as a woman - in the eyes of the public. For years she thought herself broken, defective, unable to turn to anything or anyone she couldn't fully control, and without them pointing their fingers, barking and biting, so she chose to hide her pains instead, burn them with cigarette flames, drown them in alcohol, twist them shut in pill bottles. Telling all of this to a person she technically didn't properly know until today was unbecoming but once she started pouring out the bile, she couldn't stop before she was empty, suspirious and finally content. She cried that day, several times, with and without noticing it, but there was no judgment, no prejudice, no hostility. Borgov just listened and listened and listened and didn't ever think to stop her, even to comfort her. Feeling trapped, tightly laced his whole life he simply couldn't bring himself to contain her.

When Beth calmed herself down and realised she wanted a cigarette, it was already dark outside. She learned that Vasily smoked too, though tried not to do it too often, so they relocated to the porch together.

"You didn't have to sit through all of that, you know?" With her last remaining American cigarette hanging limply in between her lips, Beth unsuccessfully tried to light it for several infuriating seconds until Borgov finally leaned in with his lighter. Their eyes locked and she felt something flutter in her stomach but didn't try to look away this time. She practically stripped herself bare before him - there was no need to put her skin back on for this.

"You sat through my tale of woe and didn't once complain," he shrugged. "Why wouldn't I do the same?"

"Oh, so that was your payment for the therapy session?" She quirked her eyebrow and exhaled a cloud of smoke, unintentionally covering herself with a veil of mystery again.

"No, that was me listening to you," he stated simply with a gentle nod.

The two contrasting portraits of him, the messily superimposed one that would usually look at her, with his eyes piercing and unforgiving, from the cover of his book and the softer one, the perfect one, collided in Beth's mind, creating something entirely new but true enough to life, and she used the pause in their conversation to study it, study his face. She never considered it before, distracted by the word _"enemy"_ and then _"opponent"_ flashing above his head in bright red, but now she could let herself call him good-looking, perhaps even handsome. The thought immediately made her blood rush back to her cheeks and she impulsively touched her cheekbone with only her fingertips.

"I think I misjudged you," she said quietly, once again causing confusion to appear on his face.

"What do you mean?"

"The first time we played, in Mexico City, I saw you followed by two KGB agents. My friends told me they were there to make sure you didn't run away. But do you know what I thought?"

"Probably that I was a spy?" Borgov's expression didn't change except for his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly.

"That they were there to make sure you won't get killed because you were so precious and valuable. And that if I really wanted to scratch your and your friends' eyes out for what you were saying about me in the elevator, I wouldn't be able to. I didn't even register until much... _much_ later that you defended me then. Me, a stranger and a drunk, in front of people who could've suspected some connection to the States and ruined your entire career." Beth could feel her emotion taking over and pressed the cigarette between her lips again. "Why'd you do that?"

"Because they were wrong." Seeing that his plain answer didn't satisfy her, Vasily continued: "I didn't know much about you then, only that you were young and an orphan. I knew that feeling and didn't want you to fight the world alone."

_Oh fuck._ Did he really just say he saw himself as a father figure? 

Beth looked bewildered for a moment, here eyes even wider than usual, but then put out her cigarette with an exasperated huff.

"I'm hungry."

The only food he had left was chicken soup which absolutely didn't correspond with the dramatic nature of the moment. Borgov was not even close to a romantic in the conventional sense of the word but, then again, she never saw him as one. She tried to but the image of him with a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates almost made her sick to her stomach. No, that just wasn't right. In any case, she was a guest and didn't want to complain about the meagre selection, however, as soon as the first spoonful was in her mouth, Beth broke into a satisfied smile.

"Oh my god, this is so good-" She covered her lips, afraid of appearing sloppy.

"I'll tell Galina you liked it. She'll be happy to hear it - it's her signature dish."

Ah yes, his wife. How did she manage to forget again? Maybe because he didn't really mention her throughout their whole conversation.

"Do you think she'll return soon?" Beth felt around carefully, knowing that Borgov could see right through her deception.

"Unlikely. Not until tomorrow." After a moment's consideration, weighing all the pros and cons, Vasily fixed his eyes on the young woman before him, as if asking for additional questions. "She's with a friend."

Such a simple reply wouldn't normally make her doubt the nature of someone's absence but the look in his icy blue eyes was so specific, tempting, that she couldn't resist her curiosity.

"A friend?.."

And that was the time Vasily Borgov chose to tell Elizabeth Harmon about his wife. They met when they were all applying to Moscow State University - him, his future wife and their soon to become mutual friend Valentina. The moment he saw her in the hall, looking at the board where they'd hang the lists of names of those who passed the exams and searching for her own, he was instantly infatuated. Thankfully, he was confident enough to approach her and strike up a conversation. They were all a bit older than students usually are now because of the war but even in the midst of all that they managed to find enough light in their hearts to become best friends and Vasily managed to fall head over heels in love. He'd never had any particular skill when it came to expressing fancy, so it took him nearly five years to finally declare his true feelings towards Galina and the whole of five minutes to understand he'd been rejected. He pleaded for the reason, thinking there must've been some other guy, and then, when Galina revealed herself in hopes of him still, despite everything, being her best friend, suffering not only from a broken heart but his youth and stupidity, he stopped talking to her for several months. The real reason was her love for Valentina, apparently, requited.  
For a young Soviet man who was, on top of everything, already watched by the KGB, the concept of two women being in love with each other was simply incomprehensible. He'd only ever heard it being discussed in hushed tones and in the most negative light possible, so he automatically assumed it was a bad thing. But the more time had passed and the more they awkwardly bumped into each other in the halls of the university, the stronger he realised he missed her, both of them, this whole time. Although still wounded after his rejection, Vasily gathered enough strength to apologise. For a time, somewhere deep inside his soul, he hoped she'd change her mind and choose him instead, but with all three of them reunited he began seeing them together more often and eventually understood that their feelings for each other were far more profound than he originally thought. How could he possibly try to separate them for some ridiculous party values or tell on them when they were already afraid every day of their lives? He might not have been a perfect man in many ways but he wasn't a monster.  
When the time of their studying came to an end and they graduated, Vasily made a decision that changed his life: he proposed to Galina. Despite his past feelings, it wasn't romantic but rather an offer to marry for convenience's sake. Her and Valentina would have a cover and no one would doubt them anymore and he, in turn, would be left alone by the party. After much consideration, Galina agreed. They had a quiet ceremony with only a few close friends none of whom had known the true reasoning behind their union. Living together wasn't as hard as one could imagine, the only visible difference being two separate bedrooms. In public they were as sweet as ever, albeit in a very reserved, Soviet way, but then again, that was always the case for them. Their friendship only grew stronger, and in time Borgov realised he wouldn't have been able to change it for any _"normal"_ marriage.  
The idea of having a child, much to his surprise, came from Galina who imagined herself being a mother since she was still a girl and really, truly wanted to be one now, despite her precarious position. The process was challenging for both of them but when their little boy, their pride and joy, was born, they agreed to forget it and instead focused on giving him all the love, support and understanding he could ever require.

When Vasily finished talking, Beth was silent for the longest time. His story in a way reminded her of herself and Townes, of course, but what made her shut up and listen was how calmly, how matter-of-factly he told it. Hearing a Russian speaking about things most Americans were too afraid to voice was weird, to put it lightly, but strangely freeing. Yes, she had already laid out her life story before him but this was probably his biggest secret, so the fact that he chose to share it with Beth Harmon had to have been significant.

"So what about them now?.." was the first thing she could think of. "Your wife and Valentina, are they still together?"

"Of course." Borgov smiled faintly. "Valentina moved here only a month ago, otherwise it would've been too suspicious. I personally think it still is but we're all technically French now, so the party can't do anything to us."

Beth sighed heavily and put her head in her hands, not knowing what else to say.

"Why did you tell me that?" She lifted her eyes after another long pause. "Don't you think I can tell the papers about you the next time I play publicly?"

Vasily just furrowed his brow again. 

"Why?"

The almost childishly innocent puzzlement in his voice made her heart skip a beat and she discovered, in that instant, that she was probably in love with him but decided not to think about it for now. There was already too much information in her head, this whole day was too much, so pondering her own infatuation would probably make her spontaneously combust.

Borgov, hiding behind his usual sullen expression, rose from his seat and gathered the tableware to wash it, once again turning his back to his guest. Of course he was afraid - he realised that half-way through the story, when Beth's face changed for the first time from the sudden news, but was too far gone to stop and take his words back. Could she actually tell on them? She had reporters all around her every time she attended a tournament, so there would be no trouble with finding the ears and the eyes. But _could_ she? Did he subject his whole family to public scrutiny and Galina, his dear companion, to a life of misery?..

When he stood there, in that tiny kitchen, with his back to her face, broad-shouldered and sturdily built, one of the few genuinely solid monoliths she'd known in her life, Beth wanted so desperately to reach out and touch him, to prove that he was real. She knew, however, somehow, in the back of her mind, that her touch would burn right through his clothes, his skin, his bones, and her hand would go straight to his heart, melting it beyond recognition. She knew, somehow, in the back of her mind, that he would let her burn him. But she didn't want to, not anymore. She wasn't like that these days.

"Come with me," she said plainly, as if it wasn't even a question or an offer, with all of her emotion and power in a few simple words. "To Italy. Well, actually, to New York first - I need to see my friend there - but then... you'll train me and we'll go to Rome."

Borgov took his time with an answer, finishing the dishes first and letting cold water run through his burning fingers, but then finally turned around and looked her right in the eyes.

"Alright."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please don't kill me if you know how chess works, i genuinely don't know what i'm doing

"Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Beth, did you _really_ just bring Borgov all the way from France?"

Of course, no one, not one single person in her group, expected Elizabeth Harmon to drag Vasily Borgov out of his bunker in Montpellier where he was, no doubt, harbouring deep and profound disdain towards her this whole time. She could've sworn Harry Beltik almost had a stroke when he saw the ex-Grandmaster, all loosened, looking rather European in his mismatching turtleneck and trousers instead of the usual sharp suit, walk into the shabby underground apartment where they all just sort of made their headquarters and met from time to time. The twins, Matt and Mike, silently exchanged bewildered glances but the most priceless thing of all was the look on Benny Watts' face when he was struck by the sheer audacity of Beth's vagary. Not only she just strutted into his living space, one big barren room, like it was her own (although with no intention of staying here for the night), but to bring Borgov of all people? He simply didn't know how to react. Oh, if only she had a camera immediately at her disposal - she would've never let him forget the face he made.

"Yep," she nodded lightly as if it was nothing and she didn't have to keep correspondence with a Soviet player for months, risking both of their reputations and safety, just to get his address. "He's gonna train me for the Invitational."

"What- _The Borgov?_ Is gonna train you? Like it's just a thing that he does?" The pure perplexity was all over Benny's features but most of all in his eyes. Beth revelled in it, quite visibly pleased with herself and not even trying to hide it, though the true nature of his emotionality puzzled her. Was it envy? Jealousy? Did he just not believe in her enough? "How much did you pay him? Not with your feminine charms, I hope."

"We just talked, you _dick_." She pursed her lips and gave him a slap on the arm, not angry enough to really punch him. "I'm quite the orator, you know."

"Oh, I'm sure you are." Watts waggled his eyebrows unambiguously and quickly moved a couple steps away before Beth got duly mad and could reach out and strangle him. "Actually, I've just decided: I don't wanna know."

And mad she was. Or rather, she would've been on any other occasion but she hadn't seen Benny and the others for some months now and her showing up out of nowhere with Vasily Borgov as her counsellor really was strange. She made a decision to forgive him for now, however, kept teasingly biting back for the rest of the evening.

The reaction she was secretly hoping to get out of Borgov when she showed him the place where the cowboy genius Benny Watts lived this whole time left much to be desired in a sense that there was no reaction whatsoever. He barely looked around the apartment and shook everyone's hands in his modest Soviet way, once again making Beth flustered with guilt. She made an effort not to show it, obviously, just like the first time, and instead focused on the boards her boys quickly prepared. After a short and quiet parley in Russian, they decided to take turns playing speed chess with all of them, which was just as unusual for Borgov as it was for those who never played with him. Benny was, of course, the only one in the group who didn't show any signs of stress, cocky as ever, but Harry, Matt and Mike looked mortified over the mere idea. In any case, playing against your own brain, however smart you are, was always less effective than playing against other people - purely because one's own imagination, mathematical as it was among chess players, lacked the human factor. So, all in all, the warm-up had its benefits, albeit not monetary, much to Benny's chagrin. Borgov moved silently, meticulously, like a shark in cold ocean waters, and attacked mercilessly, complimented only by Harmon's occasional recklessness and dramatism. He'd build the game up like the great big Tatlin's Tower and she'd adorn it with the casual en passant capture. By the end of the evening settling only for their own wits and playing on three boards at once while the others stood around, jokingly making bets but also carefully studying their techniques, they didn't even really notice that another day had passed with them being completely consumed by each other. They were, by all means, a power couple.

After defeating him on two boards but losing to him on the third one, Beth looked up at Borgov, exhilarated. He, in turn, gazed at her with utter admiration hidden somewhere in the upturned corners of his mouth, as if there was no one else around them, just her, her large hazel eyes, the fine lines of her lips.

"Why do I feel like I just watched them fuck?" Harry whispered to Benny, knowing, somehow, that despite them all standing in a tight circle around the boards, these two won't hear him.

"Maybe you did, mon ami." Benny slowly turned and gave him an almost patronising pat on the shoulder. "Maybe we all just did."

They didn't stay in New York for more than three days, careful not to overstay their welcome in Benny's humble abode, and it was actually Harry who offered to take Beth and, presumably, Borgov as well to Kentucky. He was going back home anyway, and although the seats in his car weren't as comfortable as those on a plane and it didn't move nearly as fast, at least they wouldn't have to spend a fortune on the tickets. Beth could easily afford to fly all three of them but the idea of spending more time with Vasily Borgov, even if it would've been in the confined space of Beltik's car, intrigued her. She wanted to study not only his games but him, up close, so she agreed. She also realised that she didn't know if he even had any proper money, considering that he probably hadn't been planning on spending his prolonged vacation like this, training her to beat his former fellow Soviet player. Borgov was just thankful for the tolerable weather and wanted to get out of New York as it seemed to be even more overcrowded than Moscow.

The travel took them, essentially, a whole day but none of them complained. Vasily was a perfect passenger and sat in the backseat for the whole ride, only breaking his silence from time to time when spoken to, and although he clearly preferred verbal matches and Russian practice with Beth, there was not a hint of displeasure or any kind of discrimination when Harry asked him about his career as the World Champion. Hearing him speak with her friend so freely, as if they, too, had known each other for a long time and Harry approved of her unspoken choice, filled Beth with inexplicable glee, so when the time came to say their goodbyes, she even clandestinely wished they had somewhere else to go so that they wouldn't have to part so quickly.

But when she finally welcomed Borgov in her own home, he stated very firmly that he won't stay with her and will find another place to spend his nights. As much as she tried to convince him that it wouldn't look strange if he lived with her for a while as a guest as long as they didn't share the same bedroom - and she wasn't actually straightforward about that last part and only implied it - he didn't yield and insisted on finding a hotel. Despite his appearing unperturbed most of the time, he wasn't completely oblivious to the way their connection might've looked to those around them and had no desire to both compromise the young woman's reputation and sully his own name by becoming an unfaithful husband in the public eye. And so they agreed to spend their nights completely separately but meet during the day to train.

The idea of working constantly didn't scare her as much in the first month. Borgov still very much fascinated her and it was clear that she had the same effect on him, so they began meeting frequently, if not every day, then every other day, in various places around town. They could still sometimes talk for hours on end but made sure to allot at least a couple of them to practice. Vasily made Beth get into the habit of writing down her moves even when they were playing alone, not for a title, which seemed tedious at first but eventually she discovered that her head became a lot clearer, now that she wasn't trying to remember every single detail of the game and could just look at the notes. The act reminded her of the fact that every great chess player seemed to have had a book about them and their famous strategies, including hers truly, and she imagined that when she is to write such a book herself, she would have a whole collection of entries to make the work easier.

However, when the wave of fatigue crashed her one morning of the second month, it dawned on her that she wanted to drink again, wanted to let loose and dance around the house, hammered and not a care in the world but only for a short time. Her salvation came, of course, in the form of Borgov, her mentor and, hopefully, friend. They continued their meetings but ensured to spend a little more time resting, chatting, walking the streets of the place Beth considered to be her hometown. Their evening constitutional soon became her everyday ritual and the thing she most looked forward to instead of drinking. She even discovered, to her great surprise, that Vasily Borgov could actually be funny, so much so that she once returned home with her perfect eyeliner ruined from laughing, but he, evidently, only allowed himself to be like that with those he could trust. That meant he trusted her. She knew that already, ever since he told her about his wife, but thinking about it made her smile uncontrollably. When she was alone, laying in her mother's bed at night, she didn't have to hide her growing affection from anyone.

She broke that trust - _or so she thought_ \- during the third month of his stay in Kentucky, when they decided to play at her house thanks to a sudden downpour. Borgov took a taxi so that he would arrive looking like a human being and not a swamp monster but still managed to get his hair, now styled more according to American fashion, damp from walking some five meters from the car to her porch. When she opened the door and saw him like that, the idea of making him finally stay for the night crept its way into her brain before she could even register it forming. They played like any other day, though he continued sharing with her those secret Soviet techniques that could've possibly been used in Girev's training just to keep her entertained and gripped enough for her mind to not drift off somewhere where chess didn't exist. Beth complied but her mind, nevertheless, drifted off. When their second game was done and she was defeated, frustrated, she abandoned her comfortable place on the couch and decided to walk around the house under the pretence of stretching. While Borgov was busy preparing the board again, carefully and perfectly setting up the pieces, she sneakily placed _"Fever"_ on the platter of her record player - the very same _"Fever"_ she once tried to seduce Harry Beltik to. And although she was older now, more experienced, and did have a drop to drink, the thought of doing the same thing with Borgov, who, no doubt, could appreciate her endeavours more sincerely, somehow seemed appropriate. When the first notes of the song reached his ears, Vasily even smiled, lately not trying to hide under his usual stoic facade when he was with Beth, but turning around and seeing her swaying slowly from side to side, her hips making small circles in the air as if to hypnotise him, wasn't exactly what he expected. Petrified and burning from the inside, he just sat there like a marble statue until the young woman finally made her way to the couch and leaned in, seemingly thinking of kissing him. Letting her do it was something that he didn't dare to dream of, not even when he was completely alone. Her being so close for a fleeting moment made him dizzy and he thought his heart would either jump out through his throat or burst in the process but in reality he just stood up, the mask of ataraxy already donned, and left without saying a word.

Beth felt stupid immediately - what on earth was she even thinking?! - and genuinely didn't expect to see Borgov on her porch again the next day. She was so stunned by his quick return, so they sort of just stood there, completely silent and their eyes firmly fixed on each other, until he finally asked if he could come in. She didn't even think about stopping him, to apologise or to interrogate, and simply let him into the house. After that they continued playing as usual, making time to breathe some fresh air and walk around town in between the games, but the change in his demeanour was striking, especially after seeing his tender side. Vasily hid behind his impassive grimace again, started talking less and less, didn't look at her as much when they were playing, talking or having dinner together. It hurt Beth more than she ever thought was possible but the idea of having a proper discussion about it scared her, made her afraid of breaking the connection for good, so she just left everything as it was for the rest of his days in Kentucky. She ruined it. Just like she ruined everything else in her life.

The weather in Rome at this time of year was more than pleasant to Elizabeth Harmon. In spite of Borgov making a decision to leave the town on his own while she went to Italy for the Invitational, she didn't let their awkward parting get to her. She was, after all, Grandmaster Harmon now. She was strong and confident in her ability to beat Girev. And she wasn't even going into it alone: Townes, ready to support her as ever, went with her as a photographer for _Chess Review_. Even if they weren't as close, he still would've gone to see the great Beth Harmon play the Russians again, and for that she was thankful. He was never patronising with her, never was by her side purely for the job, always genuinely excited to see her play for whatever prize, title or purpose there was. Thinking of Townes as her most reliable companion since her mother's death led her to think of Galina Borgova who filled the same position in Vasily Borgov's life. Again and again she kept finding similarities between them but now her heart only ached dully from the comparison.

There were more interviews, more briefings - as if she didn't already know what she was doing - she was even once caught by a flock of reporters on her way to one of them. Some of them probably expected to see her drunk or high again, wanted to expose the young Grandmaster, but she wasn't. Everything about her was perfect and lethal, from the way she dressed to the way she looked people right in the eyes. She even forced herself to smile at them and answered a couple of predictable questions before her new government agent helped her to the car.

It was Luchenko she saw first, not Girev, although she had a hunch he was around somewhere. The older gentlemen's wild head of hair was ever so whiter now and she wondered to herself, perhaps out of something that could be considered vanity, if it was her doing. She destroyed his friend - and Luchenko and Borgov were friends, she knew that from their letters. Nevertheless, she had to thank the man for his assistance and was the one to approach him first.

"Ah, Miss Harmon!" He shook her hand gently and vigorously at the same time. "Such a pleasure to see you again in person! I was asking everyone about you and here you are."

"I'm glad to see you too, Lev Borisovich." Beth smiled politely and nodded. "You're not here as my adversary, I presume?"

"Oh no, _pomiluite_ , my dear, I wouldn't dare! I'm here with the young one, Girev, but I'm sure you already knew that."

She actually wasn't completely certain if Luchenko was going to play or just went here as a counsellor but that put her a little bit at ease. She was so focused on beating Girev that the Russians suddenly turning into a powerful double act could potentially slow her down.

The others didn't scare her at all and not for nothing. She sorted through her international opponents like rotten apples, though made an effort to be courtly with each and every one of them. Some of them were ecstatic just to play with her, to be beaten by her, the others - not so much. One Dutch player, Meulenbelt, not only refused to shake her hand but nearly overturned the board on her before storming off like a child. He reminded Beth of herself during her very first serious international match in Mexico City but even then she was composed enough not to physically hurt the other player. Mr Shaibel would be proud of her for that, if not for anything else.

Days flew by like someone dropped a stack of papers into a tornado and soon, unsurprisingly, Grandmaster Harmon's name rose to the top of the leaderboard. The fact that she did not once see Girev in all of her time here was starting to get on her nerves but she brushed it off as a coincidence. He was here, she could see his name opposite hers on the board. Seeing him actually play would not as much prepare her for the battle to come as throw her off.

When Luchenko invited her for a brief sojourn at the restaurant before the main game with the other players whose temper wasn't as short as Meulenbelt's - where he and his young protégé will naturally be followed by the KGB, so don't you worry, my dear, there won't be any discussing of your strategies - Beth succumbed to his charms rather easily, if not for snooping but for his company. Townes was supposed to be her plus one but he had to cancel at the last minute for his work and apologised profusely. She didn't mind as much, not anymore, thinking that with Luchenko beside her she won't feel lonely and out of place, so she went on her own. Rather, she was going to go but the familiar unwavering silhouette in the main hall forced her to stop on her way to the door.

"I thought you didn't want to go." Beth practically spat out her words before Borgov could even see her. What was he doing in the hall anyway? Was he going to wait here all night in hopes of seeing her at some point?

When he finally turned to look at her in her wine-red dress and a dark overcoat, rust-coloured hair still barely swaying in the air like she was the Firebird herself, she could see the ice in his eyes melting and softened in return, just a touch.

"I've read about your previous matches." He, in turn, tried his best to appear unbothered just so she would know that the reason for him being here was serious. "You're slipping, becoming reckless again."

"Oh, so you've come all the way here to insult me?" Grandmaster Harmon raised her eyebrows and lowered her voice.

"No," Borgov replied simply, taking a small step towards her. "I'm here to see your main game."

They both knew that the word "see", regardless of the language used, wasn't applicable here as he couldn't actually be there to watch her play. They both, secretly, regretted it deeply. Townes will be there tomorrow, both as a photographer and as her friend, but who she really wanted to watch her, guide her silently from the back of the crowd, was Vasily Borgov.

With a hasty look around on the subject of reporters lurking in the corners to catch her spiralling again, Beth shortened the distance between them to a minimum with another step and jumped slightly up and into an artless but long-desired hug. Borgov followed shortly after, with his arms around her small frame and his cheek pressed lightly to her hair, turning it into an embrace.

She ended up not going to the restaurant and expected to get scolded by Luchenko, rightfully so, but when they met the next morning, minutes before the game, the older gentleman just smiled at her. Vasily didn't mention calling him, writing to him or contacting him in any other way when they were trying to figure out Girev's possible strategy the evening before and she didn't doubt him but it was as if Luchenko somehow knew. Maybe she smiled more than yesterday? No, that was stupid. In any case, he just wished her good luck like she wasn't his enemy and let her make her way to the main hall.

Everything around Beth was white and black marble and she couldn't help but feel like a chess piece herself. A queen, no doubt. Girev, in a three-piece suit instead of just his dress shirt but with the same ridiculous amount of gel in his hair, tried his best to look as severe as it was possible being almost eighteen years of age and with a meek attempt at a stubble. Unlike the first time they played, he didn't introduce himself but firmly shook Beth's hand as she approached the table. The evident resemblance he was trying to go for almost made her laugh but she contained the urge, thinking that how painfully ironic that would look if he defeated her right then and there. When they both sat down Georgi scrupulously fixed his pieces, and then the clock was started.

As White, Girev opened with the Sicilian which was unsurprising, albeit not as inventive as she was expecting, but then put her on edge with a pawn on d5. In six more moves, with Georgi's bishop capturing her knight and Beth's queen capturing his bishop, she balanced the game but her eyes betrayed her. From a buttoned-up teenage boy, genuinely excited by his future in chess and such trivial pleasures as drive-in movies, Girev had turned into the USSR's ruthless robot, driven not as much by his competitive spirit as by the party's desire to win the title back. That made Beth finally understand that she should've pitied him rather than wanting to win by all means. Perhaps, his trying to mirror Borgov from the way he looked to the way he moved will be his downfall, and imagining him the same stern and tired man by his forties made her heart ache.

In forty meticulous, measured moves he was a bishop to e8 away from cornering her between a forced adjournment and zugzwang. Beth couldn't believe her eyes. She was going to lose to Girev and give her treasured title back to the Russians. There was, however, one other move she could use to save her face, the one they'd discussed with Borgov just the other night, but was struck on the back of her head and trapped in zugzwang of her own. If she were to lose now and let him take the title, he would go home a winner and a Grandmaster at eighteen but the KGB would ruin his life completely. If she won - he would go home empty-handed and they would eat him alive. The dilemma was inexcusably human for chess. She looked around reflexively but Borgov wasn't there.

Fifty-seven painstaking moves more. Girev's queen to g8, Harmon's rook to f5.

"Draw?" Beth's tone wasn't desperate in the sense of her own possible loss but in hopes of getting through his brass armour and to his heart.

For a split-second Georgi appeared insulted by the offer but took some time to consider it. Despite how his age looked on him, he wasn't stupid and knew why she was doing it. He just hoped he didn't seem pathetic to her and those around them. With a solemn nod he reached his hand across the board and Beth took it, giving him a bright smile she'd reserved for special occasions in return.

When the game was finally over and the public settled a bit, Luchenko insisted on celebrating the good sportsmanship with both her and Girev, and this time she took the offer with the intention of actually going. Her only condition was that he and the rest would wait for her to get her friend. Having seen her with Townes in the hall before the game started, Luchenko assumed she meant the possible young suitor - there was, after all, a certain _je ne sais quoi_ about the two of them - but she clarified, saying that she would have to go back to the hotel. Townes, by his gracious companion's side, more or less saved her from the reporters and got into the car with her, probably sparking some rumours, but she just beamed and didn't say a word.

"It was a draw," she admitted quietly, entering her room where Borgov waited for her this whole time and almost startling him with a wave of bright orange lights that she was.

"I know." He gestured to the radio but didn't turn to look, instead slowly moving closer to her. "You were fantastic."

She had only received that kind of compliment from the two most important people in her life and truly treasured both of them in her heart, even at her lowest, but hearing Vasily Borgov call her fantastic was a feeling like no other and she realised under his gaze full of pure adoration that he was in love with her too. The thought unexpectedly filled her with remorse like she was a bottle made of the thinnest glass and could break from just another drop. She'll ruin him too, ruin his reputation completely, ruin his nerves. She'll drive him away by merely existing around him.

"I might break your heart." Beth instinctively lifted her foot to move back, away, afraid to burn him with her touch, but Borgov already stood before her, taking her dainty hand in his.

"You won't."

When they both reached the elevator, meaning to get down and walk out together, considering there were no reporters when she arrived, more and more people entered the elevator car, oblivious about who they were. Eventually, when the doors closed, Elizabeth Harmon and Vasily Borgov found themselves nearly pressed to the back wall. Them being incidentally trapped together like this was familiar to both of them, only now there were no people, no barriers between them. No one was putting her down, calling her a drunk, looking for the best way to crash her. He had no one to bite back. The two of them were, for once, in their own ways, free.

Without looking, Beth reached slowly to the side, found Borgov's hand, still warm from burning, and timidly intertwined her fingers with his.


End file.
